Small Spaces

In my new shoes, I tower over men and women alike. The three inch, chunky gray rubber heels on the underside of soft soles and black swede construction are comfortable and make me feel like a 5′ 10″ pale Amazonian goddess. I can see down the entire tunnel between the 6th Ave L Station and the 7th Ave 123. I move slower than I would like, but it works in my favor as an intimidation tactic. I look tough and smart. I look like I have always felt.

Except.

When I walk up the narrow stairs to the third floor of my new apartment. I walk in the narrow door, into the narrow hallway, bypassing the tiny bathroom, to open the squeaky door of my new room. I share this apartment with two other people, but they are not the ones who get in the way. It’s the design of the house. It’s the renovations that were done to make a three floor brownstone into a third floor apartment. I feel like a giant living in a land of dwarfs.

Naturally, I take off my shoes when I am home. And I am able to lay out on my full bed, in a room full of boxes from moving an entire one bedroom apartment into a large room. So in reality, it is cramped. I cannot stretch. I cannot move without knocking something over. I spent a lot of my teenage years trying to avoid what I have become: clumsy.

I can project Amazonian warrior confidence to the world, but when I am inside my own home I reduce myself to constantly banging into objects or making messes of spilled soy sauce. Feels like I’m messing with my own ego or I’m getting my confidence knocked down a few pegs.